


Misstletoe

by backb4thekick



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Fluff, Love Letters, M/M, Making Up, Resentment, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backb4thekick/pseuds/backb4thekick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames sighs, reaching the door to the apartment. It’s December 23rd, and his flights were delayed due to bad weather in lay-over destinations. He’s finally home, but it’s to an empty apartment, and for some reason, the smell of gingerbread hits his nose. He wrinkles his nose slightly, feeling a pang of anger. He expects an empty apartment, completely undecorated, without a tree because he and Arthur were supposed to pick one out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A gift to my recipient doyouknowwhatitistobealover on tumblr.

Darling,

I miss you lots. I do enjoy that we’re going old-fashioned with this, though sometimes I would like to hear your voice while I’m having it off. I guess that’s not romantic enough for you. The flat is an absolute mess without you. There’s no one to tell me not to throw my wet towels on bathroom floor, no one to take that shower with in the first place, to pick up that wet towel and snap it against that magnificent arse...You’re not even here to stop me mid-sentence, nor tell me to keep going for that matter. Hopefully this new job I’m leaving for soon will get my mind off you for long periods of time, but never completely. There is one good thing about you being away on a job of your own. You aren’t here to go mad once I tell you where I’m taking up this new employment. If you want to send me a letter back, you’ll know where to send it. And it’s with one ‘S’ not two.

Eames


	2. Chapter 2

          Eames,

I swear to god, you better be fucking careful. You promised me that while I was gone you weren’t going to do anything that was stupid and going back to Mombasa, even for work does count as stupid. Also, thanks for pointing out that these letters are supposed to be romantic after saying you want to hear my voice while you get off then proceed to very briefly describe our cleaning rituals. With how this job is going now, I miss you to the point where I would have liked some specificity in that description. I honestly can’t wait to be home for the holidays, especially somewhere quieter than Hong Kong.

It’d also be nice to have a more competent fucking team. Jesus, these may be the most unprofessional people I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with. I’m always cleaning up their messes; their sloppy, unsuitable work. It’ll be a miracle if we perform this correctly. A fucking Christmas miracle. It’ll also be a Christmas miracle if we even get to celebrate. Even with me picking up the slack, it’s pretty obvious that…I may not be home for Christmas.

With that being said, you better be careful in Mombasa. If I catch wind that you did something stupid or got into some trouble, you better believe I will leave behind this paycheck which is the only thing keeping me here and save your ass, then promptly kill you afterwards. And if you’re already dead, I will find a way to bring you back to life and kill you—no hesitation.

Love,

     Arthur (I mean it, I’ll be the one to end you, I’ve earned it.)


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur,

Oh Darling, I do promise that should I meet a horrible demise, I will positively hold on so you will have the honor of ending my life. I cannot argue with the fact that you’ve earned it, and I will most certainly die when you return home and see the state I’ve left it in. Let’s stray away from that subject, shall we?

Though Mombasa is just like it was before you, it surprisingly no longer feels like home to me. This life we’ve created has become my definition of home, so being here is bittersweet. Though, my excessive gambling does fill somewhat of a void. Yes, yes, I am up to my old tricks, after all, you said it yourself on the Fischer job, I’m “nothing but a petty thief.” However, I take pride in my ability to steal. I stole your heart now didn’t I?

The forge I’m doing is so simple that while we’re working, my mind wanders. I think about my poor darling, working alone with an incompetent team in Hong Kong. You’re working in a sweatshop, which though it’s cleared out, it’s still unbelievably hot. But since I know you so well, there you are everyday with slicked back hair and your dapper clothes. You won’t give in to the intense heat, so you only roll your sleeves up. You mutter to yourself as you clack on your keyboard and read over what you need to know for this job. Every time someone even tries to speak to you, you snap at them. You know what I have to say to that, Arthur? You’re a stick in the mud. However, you’re my stick in the mud.

You know if I were there, I’d be very little help to you. I also imagine you’ll smile at that and be relieved that I know how useless I am when it comes to actual work. Though, I’d make a very good companion, kneading your shoulders while you stare at a screen, hunched over, running around Hong Kong or China in general to find you a cup of coffee, sharing those cigarettes with you that you don’t smoke. At night, I’d mumble words into your back, telling you to relax and that the job would get done. It’s a shame that you won’t be with me for Christmas. It’s a shame I can’t be there with you right now. I miss you.  We’ll ring in the New Year, yeah?

Your Dearest,

Eames


	4. Chapter 4

Eames,

You’re a petty thief and you’re messy. You’re an idiot for staying in Mombasa and fucking crazy for gambling again. And I miss you so much that it hurts. I fucking despise Hong Kong. I hate my team, I hate this job, I hate the sweatshop we work in, I hate the plumbing, and most of all, I hate that you can’t be here.

     Once I make it home, we’ll put on a pot of coffee together and smoke those cigarettes I don’t smoke together. We’ll watch horrible rom-coms together, and then when all that is said and done, I can watch you clean the apartment. Then we should go towel shopping, your treat. In return, I will wear those silk boxers that I always put on to let you know that I want to have dirty, animalistic sex with you, and I won’t put “that infernal gel” in my hair, because I know you love it when I have sex hair.

     We will definitely ring in the New Year together. I promise to make it up to, and for once, I’m sorry, Eames. I feel like I fucked up this time. I’m such a fucking Grinch. I love you.

     Arthur


	5. Chapter 5

Darling,

Don’t you dare call yourself a Grinch. It’s not your fault that the job isn’t going as expected. Christmas is in one week and I’ll be returning to New York tomorrow, so send your next letter there. The job was simple and went smoothly. I doubled the earnings a little bit outside of Mombasa, so I can definitely afford those fancy towels that you insist on buying that I insist on throwing on the floor. I can also buy those perfumed, artisan cigarettes that you don’t smoke. You know, the ones that aren’t your favorite?

I promise that I will clean the flat, but only after we drink coffee, smoke the cigarettes that you don’t indulge in, watch horrible romantic comedy movies, _then_ have the animalistic sex that you are acting like you don’t crave. You know me, and I know you right back, pet.

Eames


	6. Chapter 6

          Arthur makes it home a week before Eames’s letter reaches Hong-Kong. He doesn’t know that Eames is planning to arrive just before the holiday, but he takes no risk in waiting. As soon as he bursts through the door, he notes that it is not as catastrophic as Eames made it out to be, but he knew there were other rooms to be explored. Still, he does something very un-Arthur and throws his luggage to the floor, and darts out just as fast as he came in.

          He catches a taxi fast, going down to Times Square to find anything and everything he could use to decorate the apartment. He was not going to be a Grinch, he was not going to steal Christmas from the man he loved. Yes, he was well aware that he needed a shower, he was horribly jet-lagged from a 15 hour flight, and he was starving, but if Eames was going to be home today or in the next few days, he had to be prepared.

          “Driver.” His voice is on edge, gritty, and he sounds angry overall. It couldn’t be farther from the truth, since he feels like hugging New York.

          “I’ll get out here.” He knows he overpays the guy, but he’s already out the door.

          Though he’s in hurry, Arthur lets time stop for a moment. He sees people selling Christmas things out on the street, Salvation Army Santas ringing their bells to get donations, The lights of Times Square are bright in the evening sky which is rapidly turning to night, and my god, he smells hot dogs. Businessmen rush past him in briefcases, talking on phones as they get into their cabs, taking a miniscule break from their conversations to tell the driver the destination, and that’s the last word they say to him until they ask how much they owe.

          Women wave their arms for taxis, a million bags hanging from their arms, and their feet are no doubt sore from walking in all the stores. The clamor of New York grows, ringing in Arthur’s ears, and he smiles, he’s home.

          Time begins to tick, and Arthur is back on task. He buys five wreaths from a guy and his daughter who are more than happy to sell them to him. He then finds tinsel; gold, silver, pink, blue, purple, and even a nice black tinsel, and he buys it all. Soon, he gets into the gist of it all and he gets equipped with ornaments of every color and size, and Christmas character, looking like the North Pole has vomited on him a couple times. His final purchase is a Santa hat, and he catches a cab home.

          Eames sighs, reaching the door to the apartment. It’s December 23rd, and his flights were delayed due to bad weather in lay-over destinations. He’s finally home, but it’s to an empty apartment, and for some reason, the smell of gingerbread hits his nose. He wrinkles his nose slightly, feeling a pang of anger. He expects an empty apartment, completely undecorated, without a tree because he and Arthur were supposed to pick one out. He hated the resentment that had suddenly built up for Arthur, perhaps it was the rough string of flights, but still—

“Arthur?” Eames opened the door to see Arthur standing in the middle of a perfectly tidy living room, all decorated for the holiday.  The room smelled like gingerbread, but it was a candle. Arthur knew damn well not to touch the appliances, and a candle is supposed to burn. Cookies, however, are not. Classical Christmas music played, loud enough to be heard, but soft enough to be relaxing and not at all annoying. Arthur just smiled, his cute, symmetrical dimples making Eames want to drop his bags and just hug him and call him a bastard. He refrained though, as Arthur put on a Santa hat and took out a piece of paper.

“Dear Eames,

I am writing this letter on the plane back to New York from Hong-Kong. I was stupid to take a job so far away from home, I should have been spending time with you. As I poured over information I had drilled into my head day after day, I began to feel delirious. It all hit me then, work was making me give up Christmas. I put my job over you, over my sanity, and over our holiday. Needless to say (but I know you need me to say it), I was a complete arse, and I love you.

I didn’t give my horrible team notice that I was leaving. I simply took everything I did and my belongings and left. In that moment, you were more important. On the plane now, you are more important. You will always be more important than anything to me, and if I ever say otherwise, you have the right to end my life, seeing as you’ve earned it.

I’ve missed your cooking, your messes, your teasing, and smoking those cigarettes that we don’t smoke. I miss hearing British slang that I finally understand, and still laughing at it because it’s so refreshing to hear. If there is one thing I miss the most however, it’s the rough, animalistic fucking we do. Because nothing can compete with that. When I read this to you, hopefully everything will go well, and you can pull down my pants to find I have acquired red silk boxers, since the Chinese are connoisseurs of silk.

Love,

Arthur.”

Eames can’t stay mad after that. He throws his bags on the ground and leaves his luggage, gathering Arthur into a proper, tight, hug. The smell of gingerbread fills his nose and Bing Crosby’s voice plays low in his ear as he realizes what Arthur did. That Arthur left a job for him, because he was more important.

“Say it again, Darling.”

“I love you.”

“No, not that, the other thing.” Eames whispers into his ear with a smile. He feels Arthur roll his eyes, but Arthur says it again, “I was a complete arse.”

“Yes, but you’re my arse.” Eames murmurs into his ear, undoing his belt slowly, revealing that Arthur did in fact have on red silk boxers.

“Oh Pet, are you going to model them for me?”

“Only if we don’t smoke those cigarettes afterwards.” Eames chuckles at that, “You know we should quit not smoking,” he says.

“Save it for a New Year’s. It’ll be our resolution.” Arthur says as he turns his back to Eames to wiggle his bum to tease him. Eames clears his throat and his eyes widen for a quick second, “Come on, Darling, I want to view the show.”

They begin walking to the bedroom, but before they enter, “Wait.” Arthur says. He points up, smiling and showing off his dimples again. Eames looks at the mistletoe and bites his lip, leaning in to give Arthur a lengthy peck on the lips. When he pulls away, he sees Arthur’s eyes fluttering open.

“Merry Christmas, Darling.” He says in a sincere tone that makes his words sound like honey, sweet and slow.

“Merry Christmas, Eames.” And into the bedroom they go.


End file.
